


Love at Five

by frostian



Series: Road to Ithaca [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, By Moffat & Co., Gen, Jossed, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-21
Updated: 2014-01-11
Packaged: 2018-01-05 08:52:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1091982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frostian/pseuds/frostian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>By sheer luck, Sherlock and John stumble over one of Moriarty's schemes. In order to unravel the madman's plans Lestrade all but orders them to go undercover. Unfortunately, for the consulting detective and his blogger, the ruse takes place in a speed dating event.</p><p>This might not be one of Lestrade's best ideas, but Donovan hadn't laughed so hard in <b>years</b>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tensile Strength of Patience

Lestrade looked at John’s colourful bruises with dismay. “Damn it, Sherlock! What did you do this time?”

No one in the room bothered to correct the DI on his assumption that Sherlock was the lone cause of John’s black eye and heavily bruised chin. And this included Sherlock.

“Testing the tensile strength of various materials that could be utilized as trip wires,” the guilty party promptly answered, his attention clearly focused on his phone.

“Don’t worry,” John said, smiling brightly while revealing the swollen laceration on his lower gum. “I found the last one in front of my wardrobe and relocated it.”

Sherlock immediately stopped texting and stared at John. “Where?”

John looked at him, his smile getting impossibly brighter and bloodier. “Take a guess, you massive tit.”

Greg had to bite the inside of his cheek in order not to laugh at Sherlock’s look of stifled paranoia, and a justified one at that if John was as motivated as Greg believed he was.

“I must insist you tell me,” Sherlock huffed. “If Mrs. Hudson…”

“Shut your gob,” John interrupted without a drop of malice. “I told her where it is. Do you think I’d let anything bad happen to that woman?”

Sherlock harrumphed in his chair and crossed his arms, looking like a spoilt child from a Dickens novel.

“If we’re done discussing your domestic situation, I’d like to talk to you about a strange case.”

Sherlock quickly glanced over Lestrade’s desk. “There is nothing of note that I can see.”

Lestrade knew very well of Sherlock’s ability to speed-read and upside down. Which was why all his files were tucked into plain manila folders. Of course this practice didn’t help much since Sherlock also possessed very light fingers. 

With a frown, Lestrade said, “Not from my division, actually. A mate of mine in Bradford got a hold of something. He called me because this event was supposed to take place in London. It got cancelled just yesterday, which actually makes me even more suspicious.”

He handed over a folded piece of paper. Sherlock unfurled the clipping then held it up so John could also read the announcement

“Well, that is unusual,” John confessed. “But hardly criminal.”

“Garrideb,” Sherlock said the name as if he was rolling it on his tongue, like wine. “The name is very rare. Interesting.”

“Well, that lends credibility to this nonsense,” John said. “So, find three Garridebs and you win the pot.”

Lestrade nodded. “What do you think, John?”

“Stinks,” John said decisively. “And I think your friend was right to contact you.”

Sherlock looked surprised by John’s pronouncement. “What makes you say that?”

“An old adage: If it looks too good to be true, it is.”

Sherlock actually smiled. “Not scientific but correctly based on numerous anecdotal evidence.”

“So, you’ll look in on it?” Lestrade asked. “Because I have a feeling if this isn’t stopped – it will end up in my division.”

“Yes, we will,” Sherlock said, folding up the newsprint and tucking it away in one of many voluminous pockets his coat secretly held. 

Then, without a word, he swooped out of Lestrade’s office, once again much like a Dickens’ character.

“How are you doing?” Lestrade asked conversationally.

“About what?” John answered, looking slightly befuddled.

“Moving in with Sherlock. Don’t tell me he isn’t a handful.”

“Oh, he’s a right nightmare,” John agreed readily. “But the mad bastard’s brilliant, and I’ve not been bored since I moved to Baker Street.”

“Is that good enough?”

“More than … what is your given name by the way? I think it’s time I know it.”

Lestrade smiled. “It’s Greg. Greg Lestrade.”

“Nice to meet you, Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade.”

John shook his hand firmly and jogged after Sherlock who was probably waiting impatiently by the elevators.

It was only after John had left that Lestrade realized the doctor never answered his question.

* * *

Sherlock was impatient, but also anxious. He knew Lestrade was hedging to talk to John alone. And though he was loath to allow it, Sherlock knew there wasn’t any way for him to stop the DI from speaking with his friend.

John turned the corner and ambled towards Sherlock, giving a nod or a slight wave at various personnel. It never ceased to surprise Sherlock that John was able to make friendly acquaintance with such large and diverse group of people.

Of course, they were all idiots and hardly deserving of John’s consideration. Still, Sherlock had to admit he benefitted from the increasing cooperation from Lestrade and his division. So, he refrained from commenting on the fact that John was able to chat up with Nancy who was harboring a secret crush on him. Or that fool, Constable Nolan, who should have never been given access to firearms as the man obviously had balance issues.

Never mind that he also harbored a secret crush on Sherlock’s friend.

“Any ideas?” John asked.

“What did Lestrade want to talk to you about?”

“To see if he needed to park a car in front of our flat, in case I turned murderous and made you eat one of your experiments.”

Sherlock couldn’t help it - he smiled. It was a small thing, really, but genuine enough to attract great deal of attention: all unwanted.

“What did you say?”

“I told him the car wouldn’t be of any use. They wouldn’t get to us on time, especially if I decided to use that bloody mould experiment you’ve been hiding under the kitchen sink.”

“Ahh,” Sherlock mentally winced. 

“You forgot about it, didn’t you?”

Sherlock gave a nonchalant shrug.

“Sherlock, it formed a government body and instituted a welfare programme for the less fortunate. I’m binning it.”

“I won’t stop you.”

“What kind of mould is it anyway?”

“I don’t know. I scraped it from the toenail of the corpse we found in Hampton Court.”

John palmed his face. “That was three weeks ago.”

“Has it been that long?”

To Sherlock’s relief the elevator finally arrived, giving him the chance to evade any more questions. He still had a difficult time adjusting to the fact that there was a human being who was genuinely interested in him for what he was. To John, Sherlock was more than just a brain. He was a brilliant human being whose faults were many but not intolerable.

This levelheaded acceptance was something Sherlock couldn’t fathom. He was all too aware of his faults. There were many people in his life who had little problem listing them, but for all that they never stuck around to help Sherlock correct them.

And yet, here was John, sorting through what had to be a metric ton of problems that Sherlock had scattered in his life, and solving them. Usually dragging Sherlock into the fray whether he wanted to or not. But even then, Sherlock was quietly grateful that there was someone who cared enough to spend his time ensuring that Sherlock learned something, as useless as it may be.

And John asked for so little in return, that Sherlock found it disquieting. In the beginning, he expected the other shoe to drop, and waited anxiously for the day John would finally have had enough and walk away.

But that day never came. And john, in spite of all his grumblings, never abandoned Sherlock. Even in his anger, John always came back to Baker Street and to Sherlock.

It didn't take long for Sherlock to admit he had a friend, and a good friend at that. Something he could never claim throughout his entire life. It was a marvel, really, and Sherlock felt as if someone had secretly given him a hitherto undiscovered work by Sarasate.

So, it was understandable if Sherlock was slightly miserly about his time with John. And bloody hell, if Nolan’s flirting was any more transparent, Lestrade would have to have a talk with the overeager constable.

* * *

“Garrideb is the most unusual name I’ve ever seen,” John stated. “I’ve googled it to hell and nothing comes up.”

“By hell, you mean you went through twenty screens?”

“Twenty-two before the links started getting outrageous.”

Sherlock was curious but refrained from asking John what his definition of ‘outrageous’ was. Probably some banal pornography. For an army man, John’s taste in porn was disappointingly mainstream.

“I remote accessed few of the national databases,” Sherlock said, pointing to a screen. “There are seven Garridebs registered with various agencies. Three are too old to travel; one is out of the country on assignment. Another is serving a lengthy jail sentence. That leaves two Garridebs.”

“How many in London?”

“Only one. A Nathan Garrideb.”

John took a peek over Sherlock’s shoulder. “Hmm, looks like a normal bloke.”

“He possesses average intelligence. I also remote…”

“You mean hacked,” John said with laughter in his voice. “Remote accessed sounds terribly legal and all. But what you did is anything but.”

Sherlock raised an elegant eyebrow and continued as if John hadn’t spoken. “Mr. Nathan Garrideb has spent the last two hours scouring the Internet much like us, no doubt looking for other Garridebs. He has also found your blog, and have perused it quite meticulously.”

“You mean he’s going to come to us?”

“I don’t know about that, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he dropped by tom…”

John’s phone rang. He took one look at the caller’s name and gave a low whistle. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

Sherlock smiled and sank back in his chair. 

“This is Dr. Watson. Whom am I speaking with?” 

In less than a minute John’s smile matched his friend’s.


	2. Contacts in Appropriate Places

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Yes,” Sherlock said. “As John noted, those of us who are financially stable enough to use cards to purchase do and pay the nominal fees without much thought. But for the poor or even less fortunate, those who cannot afford to use such services, still use cash. And if they are specifically targeted, the end result could be catastrophic.”

Nathan Garrideb was a young man with enough energy to spare. But unlike Sherlock, he seemed to have successfully channeled it to his job as a teacher and love of rugby. Broad shouldered, with a nose that had to have been broken at least twice, the client seemed intimidating at first sight with his gorilla-length arms and massive thighs.

Then he smiled and suddenly John was reminded of a Christmas elf he’d seen on the tele just last year. A big, hunkering Christmas elf, but still an elf.

“Thank you for seeing me so quickly,” Nathan said. “I honestly don’t know what to make of all this.”

Sherlock unfolded the newspaper he’d gotten from Lestrade with a dramatic flourish. And preened a little when Garrideb’s eyes widened considerably.

John gave a polite cough and gently elbowed Sherlock along.

“As you can see, your situation has also come to our attention,” Sherlock explained. “So, what can you tell us?”

“The number leads to a private answering service,” Garrideb launched without preamble. “I left a message and not two hours later I got a phone call from a man who said he was John Garrideb from the States.

“Well, to make a long story short – he had inherited a huge sum of money from an uncle of his, a man he claimed to be a brilliant sort but barmy as they come. Anyway, John Garrideb grew up never meeting another with the family name. And according to his uncle, the only other family branch was here in England. But John was told that family branch was all wiped out during the Great War. So, he didn’t bother to look any further. Then the internet happened and things got easier.”

“So, he decided to drop by?” John asked. “Seems a bit touched himself.”

Nathan gave a toothy grin. “That’s a good observation to make, actually. I think the American family branch went a little crooked some time back. John is brilliant, no doubt about that. The man’s got a head for numbers. If he didn’t come from money I’m sure he would’ve made a tonne all on his own. But yes, I get the distinct feeling he’s slightly out of touch. Harmless, mind you, but a bit … well, eccentric I guess is the word.”

“Can you describe him?”

“Small, a fiery redhead from the looks of it, and ambidextrous. I get the feeling he received a good education but wasn’t very happy with it. Probably forced into his degree by his parents. His American accent is hilarious though. I’ve never heard anything like it, and I am a huge fan of American crime dramas.”

“Anything else?”

“He doesn’t like to write.”

“I beg your pardon?” John asked, confused. “What do you mean?”

“The man won’t write a scrap of word down. He memorizes whatever information is necessary. And he texts me if I need something from him. Even when I’m in the same room.”

John slid a glance at Sherlock who looked completely entranced by Nathan’s description of his distant cousin.

“That’s definitely unusual,” John prompted. “Maybe even psychological, which gives credence to your suspicions of the man being an eccentric.”

“Is there anything else?”

“Well, John wants me to find the third Garrideb because … because he’s ill, actually.”

John’s posture straightened. “How ill?”

“Cancer, second stage.”

“What the hell is he doing here?” John asked.

“He’s receiving treatments in London, and from what I can see it’s legitimate. But he wants to make sure that if he doesn’t survive the inheritance will go to the right people rather than the government. He tells me the inheritance laws in the States are just as problematic as they are here unless a family member is the heir.

“Something about taxes and all sorts of people filing rubbish lawsuits to delay the will.”

Sherlock looked at a row of books on top shelf. John, realizing the client was already losing Sherlock’s attention, quickly asked,

“Is there anything else we should know about? No matter how small or unusual?”

Nathan shook his head after a moment of consideration. “No, nothing. Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” John said, even as Sherlock whirled out of the sofa and towards the shelves. “Why don’t I show you out, and we can talk about arrangements.”

John made his way back to the main room to find Sherlock nose-deep in a stack of old tomes.

“Better not drop those when you reshelve them. Looks heavy enough to crack your skull.”

Sherlock made some noises but his attention was clearly focused on his reading. John didn’t waste another minute. He sat down in front of his now Sherlock-free laptop and began once more searching for Garrideb and any related information. Even if the search took him to screens numbering in the three digits.

* * *

The thump on the side his head woke John. The man sat up violently while rubbing his eyes.

“Damn,” he muttered before squinting at the takeaway in front of him. “I’m still dreaming, aren’t I? You actually went outside and got food?”

Sherlock gave a wan smile and took off his coat. “From the distinct keyboard imprint on your left cheek, I can surmise your search went badly?”

“Try nothing,” John answered as he opened the cartons and took a whiff of the drunken noodles. “How did you do?”

“I dropped by a source in the papers. He remembered the name and pulled up some interesting history.

“Nathan Garrideb’s parents were killed May of last year. His father had chartered a private plane to fly over the Cliffs of Dover. It was his fortieth anniversary present. The plane got into trouble and crashed in the Channel. There were no survivors but all the bodies were eventually recovered.

“There was an investigation when an inquiry revealed the plane had previous problems with its fuel line. After what seemed like a legitimate investigation, the company wasn’t found at fault. Our client refused to look any further.”

“I would’ve missed it,” John said. “I was still in Afghanistan.”

“But that could be how our American friend found out about Nathan.”

“What do you mean?”

“If our John Garrideb, if that is even his name, was looking for another, more legitimate Garrideb, he could’ve found the news and tracked down our client here.”

“Did Nathan inherit a large sum of money?”

“No, his inheritance was modest, along with the flat he’d inherited after his parents’ death. He’s living there now. It’s in an up-and-coming area, but hardly worth this much deception.”

“So, why bother? The man doesn’t own much and nothing remotely valuable enough for this kind of charade.”

“It might not be what he owns, John, but what his parents owned.”

“You mean something he’d inherited? Something that’s more valuable than money?”

Sherlock nodded. “I think it’s time we met John Garrideb.”

John looked down at his noodles. “After dinner, right?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes but acquiesced to his friend’s request. He ate four dumplings but didn't touch the rest. He knew John constantly worried about his dietary needs, and it was endearing. But Sherlock knew himself better than anyone, Mycroft included, and his current schedule was the best for all concerned. He didn’t have such good run of luck with the Work since he started anew after the last round of rehab, and Sherlock wasn’t about to disturb something that was working in near perfect order.

Even better, now he had John who was a good doctor, and who kept a weathered eye out for Sherlock. So, Sherlock could afford to be a little careless, couldn’t he? John would take care of Sherlock if he had bit of bad luck during a case.

And it was nice, to have someone take care of him. Even if it were just few stitches here and there; some hot soup when Sherlock was too tired to properly eat solid food. Dependable, precise but gentle set of hands to herd Sherlock to bed as he crashed after days of work. Then, the same set of hands making eggy bread for breakfast along with good, hot tea to ensure that Sherlock’s appetite hadn’t totally disappeared. The same set of hands that typed those ludicrous but entertaining stories on the blog that kept a steady stream of clients with interesting, challenging cases flowing into Baker Street, and which allowed Sherlock to be on top form.

So, he missed a meal or two. And maybe should have slept a bit more here and there. At least he didn’t have craving for drugs anymore. There was an echo of want here and there, but that’s all they were. Ghosts from the past haunting him still even as they faded from memory.

A bargain really, if anyone took a hard look at the trade. Sherlock had John, and would keep John because John would stick around as long as he was needed. And even someone as blind as Anderson could see that Sherlock needed John. So, it was perfectly fine.

“I can’t figure out if that’s your contemplation face or ‘I’m Bored Enough to Harass Lestrade’ face.”

John’s quip elicited a smile from Sherlock. “It’s my thinking face.”

“Dare I ask what you’re thinking of?”

“Nathan Garrideb.”

“Too good a client?”

“No, he’s the quintessential solid, dependable Englishman. I just wonder if his parents were.”

“I did find something, but it happened before Nathan was born,” John said, pulling out a printout underneath his noodle carton. “He had an older brother, Samuel, who died in childhood.”

Sherlock read the information. “Cancer.”

“Bloody terrible even this day and age. Couldn’t even begin to think what it was like in the seventies, especially for a ten-year-old. It must have been brutal.”

Sherlock read the treatments and winced. “Brutal is the correct term. How did you get by this information?”

“You have to consider genetics in that type of cancer, especially since Samuel was so young. And since he died, I think the parents were terrified that Nathan would fall victim to the same fate. So, they meticulously documented everything. And Nathan has it in his records in case he has a child in the future.”

“What are these remarks here and here?” Sherlock pointed at the abbreviations. 

“It means Samuel received treatment elsewhere. Outside of England, actually.”

“Isn’t that unusual?”

“Yes, but not unheard of,” John answered. “That particular clinic was and still is one of the best places in the world to get treatment for kidney cancer.”

“But NHS wouldn’t cover it.”

John gave a harsh laugh. “No. It probably bankrupted the parents to have their son treated in Stockholm.”

Sherlock shook his head. “I can’t see the parents having that kind of money. His mother was a schoolteacher, and his father was a moderately successful artist in the seventies and the eighties. His works were noted in the local papers, but they would hardly bring in the needed funds to cover such costs.”

“Maybe he had a fan? Someone who could have lent the money, and allowed the father to pay it off with art? By the way, what kind of artist was he?”

“Metal etching and engravings,” Sherlock said. “Extremely delicate not to mention deadly work. With metal etching, you deal with acids and other corrosives on a daily basis.”

“Sounds like a hard job,” John said. “Could be someone rich hired the man to do work around the house, to pretty it up or something. And it could have been a damn dangerous one, from what you’re describing. There might not have been anyone willing to do such shite work for the long haul.”

Sherlock felt his head swim as he considered John’s words. He shuffled them like cards, laid them out in his mind’s eye before looking at each with careful consideration.

“Oh, John,” Sherlock whispered. “How did I ever manage without you?”

“I beg your pardon?”

From the worried gaze John had leveled on him, Sherlock knew he looked alarming. But he couldn’t be bothered to care. “Put the food away. We really need to see John Garrideb now.”

“All right,” John said, and slipped on his soldier mode without a fuss. 

The takeaway was packed in airtight containers before being shoved onto the only shelf in the fridge that actually had food. Then John went upstairs and took his brand new gun, an automatic courtesy of Mycroft, before joining Sherlock.

“Where are we going?”

“We are going to see this John Garrideb. And then we’re going to stop by Scotland Yard. I’m sure Lestrade will have genuine interest in our friend from across the pond.”

* * *

John Garrideb was indeed sickly looking. His hair was limp and thinning in places. His skin was noticeably sallow, even by streetlight, and his entire demeanor was one of an exhausted man at the end of his rope.

“Watch,” Sherlock whispered.

A girl no older then fourteen tore down the street. She collided with Garrideb but didn’t bother to stop and help the man pick himself off the ground.

Instead, she screeched, “Watch where you’re going, you tosser!” before running away.

“Fuck you, you slag!”

John frowned. “Definitely not American.”

“No, I’d say Bristol. Well educated in spite of his words. Notice…”

“I believe you, Sherlock,” John said with a grin. “So, our man’s a fake. Does this surprise you in any shape or form?”

“No,” Sherlock said as he took several pictures of the imposter. “But it does weigh in on my thinking that our client’s in danger.”

“You think this fake is going to hurt Nathan?”

“Not unless he’s driven to it. But I do think John Garrideb wouldn’t hesitate to kill to get what he wants.”

“And what might that be?”

“Access to millions of pounds.”

* * *

“Exactly how many millions of pounds are we talking about?” Lestrade asked as he downloaded the pictures from Sherlock’s phone. 

“I don’t know.”

John turned to him. “How could you not know?”

“Because I don’t know how much money they printed before the scheme fell apart.”

Lestrade stopped typing and looked up. “What?”

“Are we talking about counterfeiters?” John asked, just as confused as the DI.

“This was before your time, Lestrade, but do you remember the Stratford case in 1981?”

Lestrade blinked rapidly for a moment. “Oh yeah, I read about that. Bad luck there, at least for the counterfeiters.”

“There was a fire in a small, detached house that was quickly put under control,” Sherlock explained. “At first it all looked like a normal kitchen fire until a constable found a hidden floor trap. When he pulled that up, he discovered a printing ring with millions of counterfeit pounds all stacked and ready for dispersal. Unfortunately, the people who lived there had no clue as they’d just moved in. The previous tenants couldn’t be tracked so the investigation stalled.”

“They found almost everything save for a single engraving,” Lestrade added. “The ten pound one was missing.”

“The paper was good, but what was even better was the engraving, John. It was perfect. In fact, the people in the treasury were shocked by how good it was.”

“But that wouldn’t matter now, would it?” John volunteered. “What with the special paper and all that other claptrap. Not to mention we use cards nowadays.”

“Cash is still the accepted source of payment. And In India or Pakistan? Those countries could be flooded with fake money and no one the wiser until it was too late," Sherlock said.

“And once it is electronically transferred, it’d be impossible to track,” Lestrade supplied. 

John’s frown deepened. “And this American Garrideb knows about the Stratford case, how?”

Lestrade looked at his computer screen. “Nothing’s coming up. But that doesn’t mean much, especially if you consider cases that happened before everything went digital.”

“Were there any suspects?” Sherlock asked.

“Oh yeah, two suspects. One was Thomas Langham who died in a car accident in 1987. And a … woman, actually. Her name was Janice McIntyre. She died in what looked like a robbery gone wrong in 1985.”

Sherlock leaned forward. “Did either of them have children?”

“Yeah, Janice a boy named John Winter.” Lestrade didn’t need any prompting. He typed in the name and files flooded his screen. “He’s been a very busy boy.”

“That’s our Garrideb,” John said as he saw the familiar face. “Bloody hell … what is he playing at?”

Sherlock’s usual pallor worsened. “He isn’t.”

John closed his eyes and pursed his lips. “Your number one fan.”

Lestrade’s demeanor soured even further. “Moriarty.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said. “As John noted, those of us who are financially stable enough to use cards to purchase do and pay the nominal fees without much thought. But for the poor or those even less fortunate, those who cannot afford to use such services, still use cash. And if they are specifically targeted, the end result could be catastrophic.

“Which would be exactly what Moriarty wants,” John added. “So, our Garrideb isn’t working alone.”

“No, Moriarty wouldn’t reveal himself to the likes of Garrideb. Not after Hope.”

“If there is a middle man, and this person could lead us to Moriarty, we need to nab both,” Lestrade said. “John Winter isn’t enough.”

“No, and the odds are good that if we arrest him, he’ll be dead before sunset,” Sherlock said grimly.

Lestrade’s demeanor hardened immediately. “Hold on a minute…”

“He’s not questioning your people’s loyalties,” John hastily explained. “All Moriarty needs is a sniper and a single chance.”

Lestrade winced. “We’re not dealing with a Spotty, are we?”

“No, we most certainly are not,” Sherlock stated. “Moriarty is meticulous, Detective Inspector. His intelligence gathering is top rate, frighteningly so. And he spares no expense in getting what he wants.”

“Does he know we’re onto Garrideb?” John asked.

“I honestly don’t know, and I wouldn’t hazard a guess," Sherlock answered.

John leaned back. “So, how do we go about nabbing two instead of one? Without alerting the spider in the center?”

Sherlock looked at John. “We see what our Winter is up to. He has to meet his contact to report his progress with the real Garrideb.”

“What makes you think he didn’t already?” Lestrade asked.

“Winter is obviously meticulous as he is cunning. He has drastically altered his physical appearance to look the part of a cancer patient, and has gone through great lengths to convince our client that he is American. A man like that would either report very often or only as necessary.

“When you factor in that he reports to one of Moriarty’s people, I posit that he would keep contact as often as possible.”

“Thank heavens for small mercies,” John softly said.

Suddenly, Sherlock’s phone made a rude noise, attracting everyone’s attention. John smiled when he saw the name on the screen.

“That’s Mycroft’s ringtone?”

Sherlock grinned and opened the message. “Ahh, here is Winter’s personal calendar.”

“You contacted your brother about this?” Lestrade asked, surprised.

“I’ve come to respect my opponent, and one such as Moriarty … it is best to be prepared for the worst.”

John closed his eyes and gave a sigh of relief as Sherlock finally admitted that a foe like Moriarty could not be taken on alone.

“Hmm, this is new.”

Sherlock’s statement peaked Lestrade’s interest. “What is it?”

“I can decipher everything save for this one entry: Love at Five?”

Both Lestrade and John blurted out, “Are you serious?” before glancing at Sherlock’s phone.

Sherlock looked at them. “Is this some pop culture reference?”

“No,” John answered. “It’s a popular speed dating club.”

“Speed dating?” Sherlock echoed. “Sounds … horrific.”

“No, it’s kind of fun, actually,” Lestrade said, smiling. “I did it for a laugh, and had a good time.”

“Really? I wanted to try it but always backed off at the last minute. Sounds a bit terrifying to tell the truth,” John confessed, studying Lestrade with admiration. “So, it wasn’t too bad?”

“Can we focus, please?” Sherlock snapped. “Why would a man who looks like he should be ordering his headstone bother to go dating?”

Lestrade gave a low laugh. “Damn, it’s perfect.”

“It is,” John whispered. “Clever bastard.”

“Could either of you please fill me in?!”

They turned to Sherlock. It was John who spoke first. “Love at Five is very simple. You are assigned to a group with two groups participating. Then you are given a number and told to go to a designated spot, usually a bar or a restaurant. There, you meet and chat up a person from the opposite group for five minutes. You do this until you’ve spoken with everyone who’d participated. It’s usually a group of men meeting a group of women, but I’m sure there are variations.”

Sherlock looked nonplussed by the description. “So, Winter could theoretically end up meeting twenty - thirty women?”

“Oh yeah, that’s quite possible,” Lestrade said.

“Any one of them could be the middlema … wom … person,” John finished lamely.

“That is if this meeting is for heterosexual couples,” Lestrade added.

Sherlock sat back, his fingers steepled under his chin. “This is a two patch…”

“No, it’s not!” John interrupted impatiently. “You observe while Lestrade goes undercover. It’s not even worth peeling the backing off a bloody patch!”

Sherlock grumbled under his breath but said nothing. Lestrade once more bit his tongue. He couldn’t believe how in a matter of months John Watson had not only made himself indispensible in Sherlock’s life, but also somehow managed to cram some sense into Sherlock’s hare-brained skull.

Lestrade typed up ‘Love at Five’ website and looked at the schedule. His good humor died a quick death.

“Um, this one is exclusively for homosexual men,” he said weakly. 

“Why is that a problem?” Sherlock asked.

John bit back a laugh as he watched Lestrade's blush roar down his face and into his shirt collar.


	3. Shadow Boxes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John glanced up at the man who took the chair across from him. He noted the haircut, the tan, and the angular lines not only on the face but neck and shoulders. John also spotted the familiar scars on the hands and wrists.
> 
> He smiled and softly asked, “Afghanistan or Iraq?”

John critically examined his reflection. Mercifully, the constant running after the nutter that was Sherlock kept him in good form. In fact, the muscle tone he’d lost during his rehabilitation had returned. Not that John was a big man to begin with, but what he had was carved out of years of physical fitness and bursts of superhuman effort to keep himself and others alive. So, he was proud of his physique up until a bullet had drilled its way into his body and life.

He tugged on the blue v-neck jumper, the best in his vast collection, and one he would usually wear on first dates. However, instead of pairing it with a collared shirt, John chose a white round-necked long-sleeved shirt. And the jeans were new, courtesy of Sherlock, so he hadn’t had a chance to hem it. Instead, the cuffs were rolled up, making him feel like a complete prat.

At least the bloody boots were his. Sherlock had tried to unload a pair of expensive Austrian loafers but John stood his ground. Odds were they would end up chasing whomever Winter was meeting, and if John wanted a fighting chance to catch the bastard, he needed his boots.

“There’s nothing more to do,” he muttered and thumped down the stairs. 

John was making tea when Sherlock entered the kitchen. They stared at each other, much like two gunmen in the middle of an American Western standoff.

“Your idea of a disguise is to avoid a respectable shirt?” Sherlock asked.

“And your idea is to use half a kiloton of hair product?” John sniped back.

Sherlock had managed to gel his hair until it was a slick-backed mess, with a part on the side. John thought Sherlock looked sinister but attractive: like Sean Bean.

“I’m wearing a tie,” Sherlock said, flapping the offensive material looped around his neck. “I hate this. It could be used against me in a fight.”

“So, get one of those clip-on things,” John said, fully knowing what Sherlock thought of such horrors.

Sherlock curled his lip in distaste and reached for his Belstaff. Then froze when he heard John make a tsking noise.

The detective turned and saw John shake his head. “Damn!” Sherlock hissed and stomped back into his room. He returned with a classic Burberry that had neither the drama nor the respectability the Belstaff possessed.

“You look like a minor government official,” John said with a smile in his voice.

“I look like one of Mycroft’s people,” Sherlock stated darkly. “I might never forgive Lestrade for this.”

“Look, if he isn’t comfortable pretending to be a gay man, then odds are everyone in the bar is going to pick up on it. And our suspect is going to bolt. And you have to admit: Lestrade pretty much sweats ‘copper’ no matter what the situation is.”

Sherlock looked at John. “But you’re not uncomfortable? Especially considering your numerous declarations of heterosexuality?”

“Sherlock, if you’ve seen the places I’ve had to peel my men off of during leave, you’d know better than to ask such a question.”

That earned a grin from the detective. “You are certainly a brave soul, Dr. Watson.”

“I’m gullible,” John said. “Can’t help it, so why fight it. Ready?”

* * *

Lestrade looked at Donovan who gleefully cackled as Sherlock and John took their assigned seats in the trendy bar weirdly named ‘Tusk and Weather’.

“You know, Dr. Watson isn’t hard on the eyes,” Donovan said as she examined him. “From the looks of it, you couldn’t tell he’s a veteran.”

“I think that’s on purpose,” Greg said. “He reminds me of a school teacher I had. Right up to the moment his temper explodes and fists start appearing.”

“He really thinks he got away with Hope’s murder?”

Greg smiled a little. “They both do, Donovan. And they’re right. We have no evidence.”

“Wonder where the bastard got the gun,” Donovan said. “I can’t imagine anyone desperate enough to sell weapons to Sherlock, especially firearms.”

“Not Sherlock: John. I’d bet you a year’s pay the gun was his.”

Donovan looked at him with wide eyes. “You think he smuggled it in? From Afghanistan?”

“I can’t see how. The man was severely injured when he was pulled out. He might not even have been conscious. So, how in hell he could have taken the gun with him and not get caught is a mystery to me.”

“Someone gave it to him, then,” Donovan said without hesitation.

“But why?”

“A crippled man, his size, wandering around London? Prime target for certain types.”

“But a gun? Isn’t that a bit much?”

Donovan shook her head. “You know the bedsit he lived in before he moved to Baker Street? Terrible neighborhood. Can’t believe they’d stick veterans in such shitholes.”

Lestrade sat down and examined the bar’s clientele. “Glad I’m not there. I’d look awkward and nervous.”

Donovan sniggered. “Exactly what did you say to them? I can’t imagine Holmes agreeing to speed dating, even for a serial killer.”

Lestrade shrugged. “I might have panicked and yelled a bit. Could you imagine me sitting in one of those chairs? I’d be laughed out of the place in under a minute.”

“So it’s your ego and not your bigotry that made you decline?”

Lestrade grunted and rolled his eyes. “Look at Sherlock and John. At least they got a chance at blending in. Anyone would take one look at me and guess I’m a Yarder. If they don’t, the moment I open my mouth, they’ll figure it out.”

“You never did any undercover work?”

Lestrade shook his head. “No, I was always in violent crimes. I did some work with narcotics, but nobody sane ever chose me for undercover.”

Donovan chuckled. Lestrade was right. The man had many good qualities, but like his favorite consulting detective, the DI had little in the way of finesse. Of course, he was also one of the most respected members in the force, as his clearance rate was the highest in all the divisions.

The tinny sound emanating from the hidden microphones told the two that the show was about to start.

Donovan wordlessly handed over coffee to Greg and sat back, both avidly watching the screens.

* * *

John had to admit he was nervous. After all, he was trying to convince a bar full of gay men that he was interested. And he felt badly for it, too. He didn’t like lying, especially to people who had no clue what was going on around them. 

John also fervently hoped none of his former girlfriends suddenly showed up, because this particular setup would be extraordinarily difficult to explain. Especially when one considered who he had for a roommate: Cockblock Extraordinaire, Sherlock Holmes.

No less than two lovers, not Sarah (bless her), all blamed Sherlock for the failure of their relationship. The sad truth was that John was clearly at fault.

He always chose Sherlock, Sherlock’s safety, and their work, over John’s relationship with his girlfriends. So, John resigned himself to either single night trysts or a casual relationship with very little expectation.

Unfortunately, those were just as rare since Sherlock had the bloody nerve to appear unannounced on those nights, too. He usually had a brilliant excuse, but John had to wonder if Sherlock was testing him.

 _Can one commit murder due to sexual frustration?_ John wondered with a small smile.

“Can’t help but wonder if it’s my new suit that’s making you smile like that.”

John glanced up at the man who took the chair across from him. He noted the haircut, the tan, and the angular lines not only on the face but neck and shoulders. John also spotted the familiar scars on the hands and wrists.

He smiled and softly asked, “Afghanistan or Iraq?”

* * *

“So, you love music?” Henry asked after perusing over the information sheet that Sherlock had filled out earlier.

Sherlock’s smile was just as friendly and vapid. “I adore classical music.”

“Oh, bloody good,” Henry said with a small sigh of relief. “Call me a snob but I can’t stand what passes for music nowadays.”

“Which is why I don’t listen to radio,” Sherlock said, surprised to find a likeminded soul.

“Which of the two gods do you worship, then?”

Sherlock blinked, “Which what?”

“Led Zeppelin or The Who?”

* * *

Lestrade had to use his shirt cuffs to wipe the coffee from his chin while Donovan laughed and laughed.

* * *

John leaned forward a little. “Are you serious?”

Marcus nodded. “Couldn’t believe it. The pilot had to have a solid pair to have done that.”

“He actually got out of the copter? And fired his gun?”

“It was a bloody small thing,” Marcus explained. He pointed to his palm and said, “Couldn’t have been bigger than that. Damn good shot, too.”

“They have terrific vision. It’s a requirement to do what they do, but I never heard of one abandoning his bird. Still, he helped you and the hostages get out, so bloody good for him.”

“It gets better. The pilot was a woman.”

John sank back in his chair, incredulous. “A woman?”

“Supply runner. Got called in because her flight path just happened to be nearby. Went by the name Godfrey of all things and she had a very deep voice. No one back on base had a fucking clue until we landed and she got out.”

John threw back his head and laughed, slowly clapping his hands.

Marcus’ smile broadened. “My God, the look on those bastards’ faces. I’ll treasure that moment until the day I die.”

“I’ll bet you a pint she probably treasured it a bit more.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Marcus took a sip of his drink. “If I wasn’t gay, I would’ve asked her to marry me right then and there.”

“Must have been hard for you,” John said. “Some of my men were gay or bi, though they never said it. I tried to make sure they were treated equally, but I’m sure I didn’t do good enough job.”

Marcus looked at him sharply. “You were at war. The fact that you were worried about that along with the bullets and the bombs … trust me, they knew and they appreciated that you cared.

“So, tell me … when did you realize you were gay?”

“Bi, actually,” John answered readily. “Much easier to pay attention to the ladies when I joined the Army.”

“I can understand…”

The shout of outrage behind John told him someone’s date wasn’t progressing as nicely. And he didn’t have to think for long whose it was, either.

Marcus tipped to the left and watched as a blond roared out of the bar on full steam. His date, a striking looking brunet, quietly and gracefully wiped liquid off his face before signaling for another drink.

“Let me guess, a tall, pale gentlemen, dressed like a government official?” John asked, not bothering to turn around to look.

“How’d you know?”

“Just an educated guess.” John took a sip of his tonic. “I walked by him earlier. He seemed … very opinionated.”

* * *

“Do you like Ysaye?” The next unfortunate candidate asked.

Sherlock looked at Joseph and bitingly asked, “Why are you starting the conversation in this manner?”

“Because I heard your previous interaction with Mr. Number Five. I almost laughed when I saw your face. Led Zeppelin or The Who. I’m not a betting man, but I can safely assume that you were talking about classical music as in Bach or Ysaye and not the Rolling Stones.”

Sherlock canted his head elegantly. “I will admit to that, yes.”

“Let me guess, you are an amateur violinist?”

Sherlock looked harder at the man. “But you’re not a musician.”

“No, I’m not,” the man confessed. “My parents were enthusiasts, and they managed to pass on their love of classical music to their children.”

“Well done for them, then,” Sherlock said. He wanted to act as if he was interested, as Joseph Caville seemed to fit the bill as the middleman between Moriarty and Winter.

“I can tell you are a violinist by the pads of your left fingers. The calluses are distinctive. And there is still some rosin on the sleeve. Your bow hand has a noticeable arch between the thumb and forefinger, as does your wrist. It is unconscious, of course, but speaks of hours upon hours of practice, as you are at rest now.”

“Maybe I masturbate often.”

As soon as he saw the shocked look on Joseph’ face, Sherlock knew he’d gone too far. Not completely ‘bit not good’ as John would’ve pointed out. Still, the awkward silence that followed made Sherlock realize he shouldn’t have pointed out that particularly salient practice of humanity.

“Want some company?” Joseph leered.

“Masturbation, by its definition, is a solitary practice,” Sherlock retorted. 

If Joseph was fancying a positive answer, Sherlock’s reply had completely killed it. The interview came to a close soon thereafter.

* * *

Lestrade scratched his eyebrows and shook his head. “Could’ve gone on living without knowing that bit.”

“Do you really think that’s true?” Donovan asked curiously. “About the hands?”

“I don’t know. Why don’t you ask Sherlock when this is all over?”

Donovan snorted and took a sip of her soda. “John is doing well.”

“Really?” Lestrade peeked over her shoulder to watch John palm yet another phone number from a prospective suitor. 

“Every single bloke he’s talked to gave him their number. I’ve never seen a pull like this before.”

“Jealous?”

“I would be, but then if it means I have to live with Holmes, I’ll pass.”

Lestrade imagined Donovan and Holmes living together: Sherlock playing some discordant violin music while the DS sat in John’s armchair, sipping her morning tea and reading the papers. He then envisioned Donovan calmly pull out an axe from under the coffee table and take a swing at Sherlock after listening to the torturous sounds for full five minutes. 

Lestrade was grateful Donovan couldn’t see the grimace that crossed his tired face.

* * *

A solid two hours later, Sherlock and John convened in the empty office across the street from the bar.

John sighed and took a long drink of bottled water. “I am never doing that again.”

Donovan grinned. “Really? After all the numbers you got?”

Sherlock looked at John. “They gave you their private numbers? That’s not abiding by the rules.”

“What rules?” Donovan asked curiously.

“Love at Five plays middleman, including the first date,” Sherlock explained, his gaze never leaving John. “It’s how they actually make revenue. They arrange the meeting at a chosen restaurant or bar. And get a percentage off of the proceeds.”

“That actually sounds mildly dodgy,” Lestrade commented as he’d never gotten that far during his single foray into the speed dating scene.

John shrugged. “Not going to call them.”

“Even the soldier boy?” Donovan asked. “He sounded like he really fancied you.”

John’s immediate non-response told everyone in the room what he didn’t want to say.

“John?” Sherlock asked, shocked.

“Not as a prospective lover,” John said with a sigh. “He’s having a hard time adjusting to civilian life. And God knows I’ve been there. And unlike me, he doesn’t have a maniac of a friend to pull him out of isolation.”

Sherlock blinked at that. “Oh, I see.”

“Those community things the military signs you up for? Usually complete shite, to tell you the truth.” John binned the empty bottle and opened another. “Not that the people’s hearts not in the right place, but the last thing any soldier needs is pity.”

Even Sherlock heard the finality of the discussion in John’s tone and wisely steered the conversation away to safer waters. 

“I believe it’s Joseph Caville. The man has both the education and the background to be a useful pawn for Moriarty.”

“Why do you say that?” Donovan asked, reading what had to be the dossier on the said man.

“He is well educated, comes from a wealthy background, and bored out of his wits,” Sherlock stated. “He is clever but nowhere clever enough to run with the likes of Moriarty, which would make him easy to manipulate. He also craves danger, and believes himself to be some type of spy, not unlike those atrocious movies you force me to watch.”

John snickered but remained silent.

Sherlock took a deep breath and kept going. “He acts like a sexual predator because that’s how he perceives himself. But from the state of his buttons and the cufflinks, I sincerely doubt he sees as much action as he pretends.”

“And you got that how?” Donovan asked.

Her genuine interest threw Sherlock and he had to gather himself before continuing.

“The cufflinks are dull – have hardly been handled, as the state of his suit. It is from this spring’s Tom Ford line, but has seen little wear, which tells me he rarely needed to handle it. If he were a sexual hedonist, his clothing from his tie to his shirt will reveal shall we say some wear and tear, even if they were meticulously handled by a dry cleaning service.”

Sherlock mentally smirked when he spotted John surreptitiously pull down the sleeve of his sweater over his shirt. “He probably has a record, trivial stuff, really, but one of them will inevitably be about drugs. Tedious, but that is where his life intersected with Moriarty’s.”

“Busted for possession of cocaine,” Donovan announced.

“And Moriarty’s interest in him will be two-fold,” Sherlock continued. “Caville will inevitably bring in his equally bored and stupid friends into this little game of his, allowing Moriarty to infiltrate the upper echelon even further. Then, when they are compromised beyond redemption, he will make them dance to his tune.”

Lestrade shook his head and quietly said, “They might be pretentious brats but they don’t deserve to have Moriarty in their lives.”

“Agreed,” John said.

“Unfortunately, Caville is an exception to the rule,” Sherlock said darkly. “He is discovering he likes working for a man like Moriarty. He showed no signs of stress during the entire charade. He was confident, and enjoyed himself thoroughly. I believe it was he who suggested Love at Five as a place for meeting. And since he was successful in getting information to and from Winter I posit that he has used Love at Five for other illegal activities.

“It would serve you well, Lestrade, to take a closer look at the matchmaking services. I wouldn’t be surprised if they were doing other, more illegal and profitable, businesses under the table.”

“We monitored their five minutes. They spoke about Thai restaurants in London, and both had their hands on the table the entire time,” Lestrade said.

“Yes, but they both also went to the loo,” John added. “Didn’t they?”

Sherlock smiled. “Oh, yes, they did. Caville went first, and then Winter three minutes after Caville returned to his table.”

“So, whatever transaction occurred outside the cameras,” Donovan said. 

Lestrade caught her look of frustration. “Damn near impossible to wire the loo, you know that. Even harder to use any evidence gathered in a trial because of how squeamish everyone is.”

“Again, it doesn’t matter,” Sherlock said. “We now know that Winter and Caville are working together, and that Caville is the middleman.”

“So, we follow both and hope for the best?”

“No, I fear we don’t have much time left,” Sherlock said. “Winter showed no confidence, unlike his counterpart. In fact, he left twenty minutes before the interviews were to end. From the way he was fiddling with his phone and the frequent glances, I posit that he was mentally composing a text message, one to our client regarding the Garrideb farce.”

“He’s running out of time,” John whispered.

“Which means Nathaniel Garrideb is also running out of time,” Sherlock said. 

Two hours later, as Sherlock waited for news on John’s chances of survival, he would bitterly realize they were also running out of time.

* * *

Sherlock had barely changed his outfit when his phone rang. The conversation was expected if also a bit rushed.

“I see,” he said somberly. “Of course. Go to the hospital. We’ll be at your house shortly.”

John sipped his tea and waited patiently. The tonic waters he’d drank in the bar had managed to upset his stomach.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Winter contacted Garrideb to say he needed to be hospitalized immediately, and he wanted Garrideb to accompany him because he wasn’t as yet comfortable with the British health system.”

John paused and thought. “Damn, he wants Nathan out of the house.”

“Perfect time to plan the heist,” Sherlock stated. “His conversation with Caville must have been more dire than I thought.”

“Call Lestrade?” John offered.

“Not yet, we need to catch Winter in the handoff with Caville,” Sherlock argued.

“No, wait…”

“Listen, we cannot allow any mistakes,” Sherlock said hurriedly, eyes wide with fear. “We need to catch both Caville and Winter. That is the only way we can get to Moriarty. If what I suspect is correct, then Moriarty has someone at the Met, and the chance of a tipoff is too great a risk.”

John was stunned to see his friend’s cool façade crack and found him suffering from what was obviously a toxic mixture of anxiety and fear.

“All right then,” John agreed. “But the moment anything goes sideways, we call Lestrade.”

“Of course.”

The two shared a look, and both burst out into uncontrollable laughter.

“We’re right pair of idiots,” John said.

“Yes, but what other pair of idiots have fun like we do?”

“True, very true,” John said while checking his gun.

“Ready?” Sherlock asked, bright eyed and feeling so very alive.

“Always.”

Sherlock smiled. Here was Soldier John, so rarely seen by others. And made more precious because of it. Now he understood what all those greats had said about leaders needing not an army but a single worthy believer to win the war.

* * *

It was pathetic how predictable the criminal class could be, Sherlock groused as Winter came into view. 

He heard John’s indelicate but soft snort and knew his friend was commiserating. They watched as Winter entered the kitchen and pulled down a shadow box from the wall festooned with them. 

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow as Winter opened it and pulled out the missing engraving from its ingenious hiding place. 

“We’ll take that, please,” Sherlock said as he stepped out of the breakfast alcove. He didn’t notice anything was wrong, not until Winter dropped the engraving, his back still to them.

“Mr. Winter?” Sherlock asked.

The man took a deep breath and turned. It happened so fast, Sherlock had no time to react. However, John with his training and near-superhuman sense of danger, shoved him out of harm’s way. 

But that single act put John in direct path of the bullet.

John’s soft ‘oh’ as the bullet neatly sliced into his chest seemed like a hellish scream to Sherlock.

There was another blast as Winter fired his gun but Sherlock managed to duck behind the butcher block. He shot back and hit Winter right in the shooting arm.

The man dropped his gun and fell to his knees, cradling his injured arm. Sherlock didn’t hesitate to zip tie his hands behind his back, even with the injuries. And then the ankles because he’d rather immobilize Winter than waste time beating him until he was unconscious.

He found John next to the breakfast table, motionless. Sherlock discovered the bullet wound to be a neat hole that drilled right between John’s eight and ninth rib.

John woke up and looked at Sherlock. “It’s all right.”

Sherlock snarled. “No, it’s not. I’ll kill him. I’ll kill him.”

“Did you call Lestrade?”

Sherlock held up the phone in his left hand. Even without looking he had managed to fire off a text.

“Good, that’s good,” John said with a weak smile. “It’ll be fine, Sherlock. Don’t worry. It doesn’t even hurt, really.”

And with that comforting smile still on his face, John closed his eyes.

Sherlock checked for pulse and found it, though threadbare. He gently pressed his scarf on the bleeding wound, knowing that the blood will now probably fill the thoracic cavity instead of spilling out, and maybe even pressure the heart into stopping. But he had to do something, anything. He gingerly checked John’s back and found no exit wounds, which made his panic that much harder to control.

Sherlock leaned down and heard John breathing, though the left lung was near silent. The heart was still beating but there was an aberration in the sound.

_Bullet entered, hit rib and bounced into the lung, tearing it. It didn’t exit so still in the chest. Probability of it near or in the heart: greater than forty percent._

The emergency personnel arrived first and found Sherlock curled around John; his head pressed against his friend’s chest, listening to John wage a war against death once more. His face was near angelic in its calm but the blood that had drenched his cheek and hair told them peace was nowhere to be found.

It was Lestrade who ordered them to take both in the same ambulance, regulations be damned. And after taking a look at the traumatized victim and the grip he had on his wounded friend, neither worker was willing to part them. Both had experience with separating loved ones during crucial times and end up losing both before they arrived at the hospital.

So, Sherlock was strapped onto a chair next to the gurney, uncharacteristically docile as the medic kept John alive. Once John opened his eyes and immediately began speaking, though the mask on his face made his words a mumble.

Sherlock didn’t hesitate. He stood up and loomed over his friend who calmed down. The medic decided to work around Sherlock who remained standing and whose gaze never left John’s face even as the injured man slowly sank back into oblivion.

* * *

Lestrade sighed and shook his head. “It was a trap.”

Donovan paled considerably. “Are you sure? Really sure?”

“Yeah, Winter confessed. He had a call while he was getting ready to burgle the house. Caville told him everything, and that the only way he could get out was to shoot.

“Winter was too scared to refuse.”

“Bloody hell,” Donovan hissed. “Caville drove him to murder? How is that possible? The idiot was supposed to just steal the engraving.”

“I think Caville told him something,” Lestrade answered. “Something that forced Winter into committing murder.”

“Hold on,” Donovan said. “Who was Winter supposed to kill? Holmes and Watson?”

“Now that’s the queer thing,” Lestrade said. “He was told to shoot John.”

“I don’t like it,” Donovan said. “I don’t like it at all.”

“We all know, especially John, how dangerous it is working with Sherlock…”

“That’s not what I meant,” Donovan interrupted harshly. “If Moriarty is such a nutter, why didn’t he target Holmes instead? He’s the bigger threat, yeah?”

“Because he is a nutter. He likes playing games…”

“As much as Holmes,” Donovan finished her boss’ sentence. “I hate to say it, but what do you think is going to happen to London while these two lunatics play their version of peekaboo?”

Lestrade couldn’t answer, as all he could see was John’s pale face, seemingly floating in the gurney’s nest.

* * *

Mycroft sat next to Sherlock, graceful and mercifully silent.

“The hateful staff here won’t let me see what is happening,” Sherlock complains, but his words are hollow as there wasn’t a drop of truculence in them.

“The bullet entered the left lung, and instead of exiting careened off the seventh rib before lodging itself next to his heart.

“Mercifully, Dr. Watson’s heart though … shocked, remains undamaged.”

Sherlock covered his face with his hand. “I hate this.”

“So do I,” Mycroft said softly. “But John is in best hands. And he is a strong man with even stronger will. He’ll pull through.”

Sherlock took a deep breath before choking out a laugh. “Did you know I actually enjoyed myself, playing Moriarty’s game? That I finally found a criminal mastermind to match my intellect, my drive?”

“This isn’t your fault.”

Sherlock shook his head. “But it is, Mycroft. I invited that lunatic into Baker Street and into John’s life.”

“Sooner or later, you and Moriarty would have come to blows,” Mycroft reasoned. “You two were destined to meet if only because of what you are.

“And do you think Dr. Watson would’ve chosen to be anywhere else? He may not be of your intellectual level, Sherlock, but the man’s sense of justice and of right and wrong – those qualities would have been enough to set _him_ on the path against the likes of Moriarty and his cohorts. It’s fortunate for Dr. Watson that you were by his side.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened a little at his brother’s observation. 

“Moriarty and his enterprise are not to be trivialized, but the man has made many, many enemies besides yourself.”

Sherlock looked at Mycroft, his eyes sharpening. “You know of him, then.”

“I am getting to know him,” Mycroft amended. “And it’s only matter of time before others do. And when that happens … actions will be taken.”

The words were nebulous, but Sherlock took comfort in them. And when the surgeon finally appeared, his eyes were kind but hopeful, and the smile on his face was genuine.


	4. The Composition of a Good Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What does it say?” Sherlock asked.
> 
> “Reinchbach,” Lestrade answered. “It’s German for…”
> 
> “It’s a painting,” Sherlock curtly stated. “A Turner painting.”

“We found Caville,” Lestrade announced grimly as he took the proffered tea from John.

“That doesn’t sound good,” John said as he slowly sank into his armchair.

Though he’d been out of the hospital for almost a month, the chest wound was slow to heal, and still caused considerable pain at the end of the day.

“His body, to be exact,” Lestrade explained. “We found it, in his flat. In his bed, tucked in.”

Sherlock arched his eyebrows. “Was he in his bedclothes?”

“Yep. It all looked very domestic save for the fact that the corpse was putrefied. I can’t imagine the hassle to stuff that into linen pyjamas.”

John winced. “My God, that’s truly disgusting.”

“Not to mention a waste of perfectly good pyjamas,” Sherlock added. “As for Winter?”

“He’s still alive, and in jail. Also not speaking a damn word. I’m starting to think Moriarty either forgot about him, or Winter is too small a problem for Moriarty to be concerned with.”

“With Caville gone, we’ll never know,” Sherlock said.

"At least Nathan's safe," John muttered. "Just got a post from him. He loves Sydney. Met a girl there, and is planning to stay longer."

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow but remained silent about Nathan's amorous proclivities. “Did your specialists come up with anything on Caville's laptop?”

“Now that’s where it gets interesting,” Lestrade said. “Caville was smart enough to have two backups: one in the … ‘cloud’ thing whatever that is, and the other an external drive. They weren't able to decipher it, but one word kept coming up, repeatedly.”

“What is the word?” Sherlock asked.

“Reinchbach,” Lestrade answered. “It’s German for…”

“It’s a painting,” Sherlock interrupted curtly. “A Turner painting.”

John’s eyes widened. “You don’t think…”

“As I’ve often said: It’s dangerous to theorize without facts.”

“I’m going to have someone at the Met look in on that painting,” Lestrade said cautiously. “Care to tell me where it is, Sherlock?”

“Higgins Gallery,” Sherlock answered promptly. “Lestrade, pay attention. If this is another lead then it would be wise to tread carefully.”

“Will do.”

John waited until Lestrade was out of earshot before asking, “You’re actually going to trust the Met with Reichenbach.”

“Of course not,” Sherlock scoffed. “But it pays to have them snooping around. May throw Moriarty off our scent for a while.”

“Ahh, I see,” John said as he stood up. “I’m guessing Mr. Fontaine, Eternal Art Student, will make an appearance.”

Sherlock had to smile at John’s fond tone. His friend had a laughing fit when Sherlock revealed that particular disguise. Sherlock wasn’t sure if it was the beret or the ridiculous beard that did it, but John could hardly breathe as he sat wheezing on the floor with tears streaming down his face.

“Maybe,” he said. “Or Mr. Hurringer of Salzburg could drop by.”

John chuckled. “Either one would be lovely. I could do with a good laugh. Surgery was murder today.”

“Are you sure you should be working? So soon?”

John looked kindly at Sherlock. “Yes, I do. Any more convalescence and I would have started shooting the walls.”

Sherlock watched John stumble about the kitchen, washing his mug. “Do you need help tonight?”

“No, I’m just going to brush my teeth and toss it in. Good night, Sherlock.”

The detective closed his eyes and listened to John move about his room. The limp wasn’t back but there was a distinct lack of crispness in John’s movements. People could easily attribute the change to exhaustion, but Sherlock knew better. 

It was pain. As expected John had binned his pain medication the moment store-bought ones could do the job. At first, Sherlock was insulted, because he knew the main reason for that foolhardy sacrifice was his personal history with drugs.

But his anger quickly morphed into something warm and distinctly … unfamiliar. John who was shot, who nearly died, whose heart was nestled against a bullet, was more concerned about Sherlock’s wellbeing than his. And let’s not forget the pain. Post surgery recovery was a nightmare. Add chronic pain to that blend of horrors: it was almost insurmountable.

But no one reasoned John’s particular brand of stubbornness, loyalty, and self-sacrificing personality. So, Sherlock gratefully accepted his friend’s truculence and his tired demeanor. That John and not Sherlock, for a change, needed to be entertained to take his mind off other things.

And Sherlock, to his undying glee, found that making John roar with laughter was actually enjoyable. Especially since he found John had a wicked sense of humor, and was not at all averse to dining out with Sherlock in disguise.

In fact, Sherlock had eaten dim sum with John as Marcus Simmons, a curator for the Gallery. And they once actually shared a meal at Angelo’s while Sherlock was impersonating an accountant hired to help John organize his finances.

John had no compunction in letting the old bookworm, Mr. Jameson, ply him with used books at Camden Market. And actually bought Mr. Finch, a pilot for British Airways, a latte at Speedy’s as the two discussed airfares and the best time to fly out of Heathrow.

At the end of the masquerade extravaganza, John had remarked, “I don’t think I’ve been so socially amiable since I came back from Afghanistan.”

Sherlock smiled at the memory. Others would have been either confused or worried that they were being mocked. But not John. John had encouraged it, enjoyed Sherlock’s more flamboyant personalities. And took to heart that Sherlock meant no harm by his behaviour.

Sherlock once more felt that warm spot in his mind pulse. With some reluctance he stopped thinking about his friend and continued to listen as John finally crawled into bed and fall asleep.

As was his usual habit, Sherlock decided to forego sleep altogether and instead catch up on his reading. He has an inbox filled with forensic journals from Australia and Canada that he hadn’t touched. 

It was almost three when Sherlock heard the familiar but dismaying noises of his friend in the throes of a nightmare. Sherlock wasn’t prone to feeling guilt, but he suffering it well enough as he heard John moan softly while thrashing in his bed. Then he heard the door to Mrs. Hudson’s flat open. Sherlock peeked into the hallway and saw her look up the landing.

“Is he having one of those?” she asked softly.

Sherlock nodded. “Afraid so.”

“Poor dear,” she whispered.

“I wish he didn’t. It serves no purpose save making John surly and stubborn in the morning.”

Mrs. Hudson shook her head. “Of course they serve a purpose. And you should be glad, Sherlock, that he has nightmares still.”

Sherlock gaped at his landlady for a moment before asking, “How did you arrive at that conclusion?”

“Because a good man like John? Well, imagine him in the middle of a warzone, and a doctor at that. He couldn’t possibly save everyone, could he? Nobody is that good a doctor. And he probably killed, more than he’d ever thought he would.

“Still, even after all that he remains a good man. So, he comes home and all his guilt comes rushing up after being bottled for heaven knows how many years. But that’s what happens to a good man, Sherlock. You put them in impossible, horrible situations, and they survive; well, their conscience won’t make it easy for them after. How could it?”

“So, you’re saying his nightmares are a badge of honor?”

“No, Sherlock, evidence of his goodness. And the fact he has nightmares tonight … it means he cares.

“My Jerry? He never had a bad dream. Not a single nightmare his entire life. When he first told me that I thought it must have meant he was a happy, easy-going fellow.

“Well, I know better now, and so should you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock felt a smile curl on his lips. “You are a wonder, Mrs. Hudson.”

“Stop talking and play something he likes. You know well enough what calms him.”

“I will. Good night.”

“Good night, Sherlock.”

He didn’t wait to hear her door close. Instead, he softly began playing his violin, a composition of his own floating through his fingers and into the violin, to have it echo throughout the flat and into John’s cursed mind.

And Sherlock hoped that his music would be enough to soothe the lion heart that rested within John and give his friend some blessed peace.

 

**The End**

**Author's Note:**

> Still not Brit-picked or beta-ed because I am cruelty free, and won't endanger anyone's sanity by exposing them to my schedule.


End file.
